


Well Worn Hand

by Neeka



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Devotion, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Mythology, M/M, Pain, Post-Apocalypse, Torture, im sorry??, post not-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neeka/pseuds/Neeka
Summary: It wasn’t often the angels and demons took inspiration from pagan myths, but when they did, they picked well.





	Well Worn Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desushoard (tenderanglerfish)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderanglerfish/gifts).



“You don’t have to ssstay Aziraphale,” Crowley muttered weakly, enchanted chains jangling as he futilely tried to slip them. He’d been trying since the start, he must know by now that he was well and truly trapped, yet Aziraphale knew he’d keep trying for eternity. They both would.

“I know dear boy,” Aziraphale answered, watching a drop of holy water land in the bowl he was holding over Crowley’s face, “but where would I go without you hmm?”

Crowley’s face crumpled, just for a second, before growing tired once more as he nodded, squeezing the hand Aziraphale had taken hold of days before and not let go of since.

It was as much of a thank you as Crowley was able to give and for Aziraphale, it was more than enough. The Not Apocalypse had changed things in his head, allowed him to understand and accept feelings he’d fought with for decades; that they were a team, he and Crowley, two odd half’s of a strange whole. Where else would he be but here, holding a bowl over Crowley’s restrained form, catching every drop of holy water that dared go near him.

He’d not missed one since he’d found Crowley, yet it was still too late, guilt hitting him on and off like waves against the shore.

Aziraphale had feared the worst, appearing in the cave expecting to see the destroyed remains of his... his best friend. That would have been too merciful for hell though and after everything Crowley had done, they wanted more than simple destruction.

So instead they’d watered the holy water down just enough to burn, to cause incredible agony and wounds but not to kill, not for a long time.

Aziraphale had gotten there as quickly as he could but it wasn’t quick enough to save Crowley’s eyes.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever made a noise like it in all his many years of existence, the sight of Crowley writhing in pain, bloody, burning gouges carved down his face like tear tracks. And his _eyes_...

He’d seen many eyes in his long life, but Aziraphale had always secretly held the opinion that Crowley’s were the most beautiful. Odd, yes, but captivating. He would miss them.

He moved the bowl down around Crowley’s stomach, catching the small drop that tried to land there, moving it back to his face in time to catch yet another. Squeezing Crowley’s hand in a silent promise of ‘I’ve got you’.

Aziraphale supposed it was punishment for him too, hence why Heaven had let it slip, back when he’d been manically looking for the then missing Crowley. Now, he’d either be just as stuck as Crowley if he wanted to save him, or leave and have to live with the guilt of Crowley suffering horrifically before he finally died. Anyone who’d ever known the two of them would know that was simply not an option, no matter what Crowley said.

The first time he’d asked the angel to just pour the full bowl of holy water down his throat and have done with it, Aziraphale had felt his heart crack and splinter. The hopelessness and pain and barely masked fear in Crowley’s voice was embedded in Aziraphale’s brain, replaying at odd moments and making his hand shake.

He could always swiftly steady it though, he couldn’t ever allow it to falter. The simple act of holding that bowl over Crowley, to keep him safe, had made it the most vital hand in all of history.

He’d refused of course, the demon spitting and hissing all sorts of insults and lies at him, as if there was anything Crowley could possibly say that would drive Aziraphale away.

“Crowley, my dear Crowley,” he’d all but exhaled, bending to press his forehead to the demon’s scarred one, “I could no more kill you than I could leave you. After 6000 years, I’m not sure who I’d be without you. Please don’t make me find out.”

He’d only asked two more times after that, and only when the pain of his unhealing wounds got too much, the prospect of forever stretching out in front of him. Aziraphale refused each time, still holding on to the hope that they’d escape, that they could go back to the bookshop and the Bentley, to lingering lunches and drinks. To their _life_.

Aziraphale had tried to bring some of that life into the cave with them, attempting to miracle tea and cakes, some books to read to Crowley or any other little comforts. It hadn’t worked, the magic woven in and around the cave and Crowley’s chains cancelling all others.

It had made Crowley laugh though, hysteric and just a little unhinged, but it had been a welcome sound all the same.

“Trust you,” he’d choked out, “to want cake at a time like this.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, quickly pouring the full bowl of holy water on the floor away from Crowley before setting it in place once more, “there’s no reason for us not to have some comforts. And it wasn’t just cake, I thought a bit of 1992 Screaming Eagle Cabernet would wash it down nicely.”

Crowley hadn’t answered, not with words at least, but the pained twist of his lips suggested, to someone who had known him for as long as Aziraphale had, that if Crowley still had eyes, they’d have been wide, vulnerable and maybe a little wet.

‘Stop helping me,” that twist had seemed to say. ‘Go save yourself.’

‘Never,’ he hoped the squeeze of his hand replied.

He’d meant it then and he meant it now, even as it hurt him on a soul deep level to see Crowley suffer, to have had to listen to his stuttering recounting of what happened, to be able to offer nothing more than the prevention of further added suffering.

Still, whenever Crowley clung on to his hand tighter and rubbed his thumb over Aziraphale’s skin, or tilted his head in the direction he knew Aziraphale to be and listened to him talk nonsense or recite any of the books he knew from memory, Aziraphale knew he could offer himself too. His company, protection and... _love_. Yes, he supposed that really was the only word for it.

And even when the pain and anger and hopelessness grew too much, the background radiation of absolute love that had always surrounded Crowley never faded or wavered, not even once.

Yes, Aziraphale thought as he caught another drop, they might not have much right now, but they had that.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that sweet little drabble was my first step into Good Omens fic and it’s all desushoard’s fault who prompted me with the legend of Loki and Sigyn in the cave with snake venom. The angst was too much for me to resist.
> 
> Still trying to get a sense of their voices and characters, and hopefully the next fic will be a happier one. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
